Sensible Festivities
by Sparky Dorian
Summary: For Hades Lord of the Dead's December Calendar Challenge of Awesomeness! Thirty-one days with our favorite Detective and his companions. Non slash. Day thirteen, from Wordwielder: Presents and procrastination.
1. Knight

_Hello hello! This marks the beginning of what promises to be a very enjoyable month. I'm certainly looking forward to it. Today's prompt, from I'm Nova, is **Knight**. Thank you for reading! _

* * *

Sherlock pressed his fingertips into the soft clay, leaning closer until his nose nearly brushed against it. The chair creaked beneath him as he rested his elbows on the low table. His dark eyes were sharp, his brow furrowed in concentration. The clay had a particular scent, he noted; dull and earthy, similar to wet sand. He filed this information away for later use.

"Sherly?"

A voice called from outside his door. He remained silent, turning the clay and pinching a stray lump into shape. It was nearly complete, slowly taking recognisable form in his hands.

"I say, are you in there?"

The voice was curt. He paid no heed, letting the figure rest flat in his palm to critique it.

Another summons was cut short, as Mycroft grew frustrated and pushed his way into the room. Wood scraped on wood as the armchair slid away from its place as barricade.

"Evening, Mykey," Sherlock murmured, eyes narrowed in thought.

"Hello." He registered Mycroft sitting across from him, elbows resting on his knees. His fingers and wrists were ink-stained, and he smelt of smoke. Clearly, he had come straight from studying with the older boys.

The daylight was quickly dying, and Sherlock found himself straining to see. Wordlessly, he set down his project and fished out a candle and matches. Contraband, to be sure, but necessary.

"Are you supposed to have those?" Mycroft asked, his tone amused.

"I need them."

Light restored, he reached out to resume his sculpting. The clay had wormed its way under his fingernails, leaving dark crescent shapes. Mother would have his hide if he presented such hands, back home.

"Whatever _are_ you doing, Sherlock?" Mycroft leaned closer to inspect his craftsmanship. "Is that a horse?"

"No."

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow, sinking back into the settee and crossing his legs. "It certainly looks like one."

Sherlock shrugged minutely.

"Are you going to come to dinner? They've nearly finished serving."

"Not hungry."

Mycroft let out a put-upon sigh. "Very well. I shall leave you to your work."

He did not respond, setting the figure down on the table to test its balance. A tiny smile flitted across his face. It remained perfectly even.

"Are you well? You've been... Withdrawn, these few days, I must say, even for you." Mycroft's hands were in his pockets, feet shuffling against the floor. He was uncomfortable. Mycroft was seldom uncomfortable.

"I am fine." Sherlock looked up at him properly for the first time. "Only busy."

The lie was seen through as such, but Mycroft did not pursue. "As you say. I can bring you a sandwich later, if you like."

"No thank you."

Mycroft passed a hand through his hair, and shook his head. "Good night, Sherlock. I will see you tomorrow."

Sherlock nodded. "Good night."

The door closed with a soft click, and Sherlock's shoulders loosened. He slid from his chair, treading quietly across the floor, and retrieved a small wooden box. Straining under the weight, he pushed it up onto the table, hands under the edge as it nearly fell.

Methodically, he removed each piece. The board, checked and painted on the back of an old sign, and thirty-one pieces, half plain brown and half stained white. He hoped Mr. Whittemore would not miss the container of whitewash. It was to be a surprise.

They looked well, lined up on the board. Not as good as his old chess set, which had been oak and cherry with gold inlays. A present from Grandfather Holmes. However, as that had found its home in the river, along with several other belongings, he would make do with this.

Simmons and Grimes would not get their hands on this one, as it would be safely stored in a dry corner of the groundskeeper's shed. He would not deign to give them the satisfaction of seeing it. A boy his age had no business with a chess set, they said. Ignorant. Still, it would be pleasing to steal away and play with Mr. Whittemore in the afternoons again. He made a formidable opponent.

Tomorrow was the first day of exams for the older boys. Sherlock wondered how his adversaries would fare with their ink dried out. New ink would have to be requested at the last moment from Miss McCreedy, the librarian. All the boys were intimidated by her, and she despised both wastefulness and lack of preparation. The deed could not be traced back to him, of course. They would suffer unawares.

"And the knight makes thirty-two," he said, setting the last piece down. He regarded it with pride.

Try as they might, they would never best him.


	2. Bubbles

_Day two! This is my first time attempting to write from Watson's perspective, and any critiques on his voice would be welcome. Today's prompt is from Rockztar - Bubbles. _

* * *

I ascended the stairs to 221B with heavy steps, cane in hand. Cold, damp weather never failed to send throbbing pains through my leg, and this year's winter was no exception. A seat by the fire and a cup of Mrs. Hudson's finest sounded better than all the medicine in the world. I looked to the top of the staircase with high hopes.

When I reached the landing, I frowned. A thick smell of soap hung on the air, overpowering even the dust and spice of old Christmas decorations.

"Holmes?" I called, pushing the door open with a certain measure of caution; one could never be sure, with Sherlock Holmes as a flatmate, what they were to encounter within.

No irritated voice answered, and I made my way inside with some trepidation.

My cane fell from limp fingers.

The entire flat was a blur of white; heaped about and spilling across the floor. At first glance I fancied it to be snow, but closer inspection revealed that the pervasive substance was, in fact, an extremely large quantity of bubbles. Even the armchairs were filled with piles of them, shimmering in the very enticing firelight.

"Holmes!" I limped into the kitchen.

He appeared to be entirely absent, leaving his mess behind for someone else to attend to, as was his habit. I pushed a heap of lavender-scented bubbles off mantle with my hand, before they ruined the photographs. Evidence of water was already apparent, and my frustration increased.

I cleaned the armchairs and a small portion of the sitting room, finding no better method than herding the bubbles into great heaps on the ground. Faint popping noises filled the flat, and I winced. Mrs. Hudson would not be pleased with the results.

The door opened and closed sharply. Holmes stepped in with clipped footsteps, his air almost jovial.

"Why, good afternoon, my dear man!" He pumped my hand enthusiastically. "I had hoped you would stop by. What do you think of my little experiment?"

"I think, Holmes, that it got rather out of hand." I regarded him with a flat look, but found it hard to maintain a stern demeanor in the face of his exuberance. Such merriment was rare, except during a particularly engrossing caper.

"I suppose this was for a case, then?"

Holmes's expression grew smug. His smile resembled that of a very large, very self-satisfied cat. "Indeed." He swept across the room, stepping neatly around my pile of bubbles, and installed himself in his favorite armchair.

A pipe was produced presently, and he reclined with a languid sort of satisfaction.

It was clear that he expected me to join him, and ask such questions that would allow for proud responses. I was familiar with this mood.

The fabric of my chair was damp, but the fire sent pleasant waves of heat seeping into my leg; I found myself much more inclined to indulge the detective.

"Let's hear it, then, old chap."

Holmes puffed twice on his pipe, then blew a smoke ring with a look that was positively gleeful. "I have apprehended the culprit, and an innocent man will now walk free. Accomplished, in great part, thanks to this." He made a sweeping motion with his arm, clamping the pipe between his teeth once more.

I shook my head. "I am afraid I don't follow."

"Soap scum residue on the killer's spectacles, which he foolishly dropped at the scene in his haste," he elaborated, eyes glinting. "A very distinct pattern. Two men were suspected of the crime, and neither would claim the glasses to be their own. As such, I was forced to pursue further methods of verification."

I extended my legs, letting my arms cross. Holmes continued, twitching with excitement.

"Both men lived alone, and were not of means; meaning, of course, that they were both inclined to do their own washing up. A perusal of the two households revealed that they favored entirely different types of dish soap, certain to leave entirely different patterns." My companion flicked his fingers toward the two piles lingering on the kitchen table. "See them there. As I predicted, they were easily discernible."

"_Those_ are the two varieties you tested?" I asked.

Holmes nodded curtly. "Certainly. I required them close at hand to my equipment."

I gesticulated sharply to the room. "What in blazes was the rest of this for, then?"

"Mmm." Holmes tipped his head back against the chair, lethargic. "Research."

"Really, Holmes..." I shook my head, pressing two fingers to the bridge of my nose. "Mrs. Hudson won't be pleased."

"She will be aware only if you make her so," Holmes said, his eyes closed. The pipe hung loosely from his fingers. "I would suggest that you do not."

"But-"

"In any case, cleaning will be absolutely no trouble. All we must do is open a window and allow nature to take its course. It isn't as if I filled the flat with marbles, Doctor. Bubbles are not especially durable."

I frowned. "Very well."

He opened one eye, regarding me apathetically. "You may commence."

"You do amuse me so, Holmes." I pulled him to his feet. "_You_ may commence. I will observe you, from right here."

He scowled. "I think not."

"Mrs. Hudson is only downstairs. She's but a shout away." I raised an eyebrow, a mirror of his trademark expression. "Would you like to test her patience again?"

I saw the idea working its way through his mind, and his scowl deepened. Wordlessly, he stalked to the window, throwing it open violently.

"Cheer up, old fellow," I called, settling back down into the armchair. "After all, it will be absolutely no trouble."

He launched a pillow at my head, glaring.

I grinned.


	3. Mary's Secret

_Today's prompt is from MadameGiry25 - Watson discovers that Mary's been hiding something from him, and is hurt when she won't talk to him. BUT. Little does he know..._

_Shamlessly fluffy._

* * *

He pushes in through the front door. Rain drips from his coat, and his shoes smear the clean wood with mud. It smells of bread and hot soup.

His shoulders loosen. It is good to be home.

"John? Is that you?"

Mary's voice is soft. She comes in with a shawl draped around her slim frame, curious.

"Hello, love." He kisses her forehead.

Dark strands of hair have strayed across her face; he brushes them back gently. She smiles up at him with warm, grey eyes.

"How did you fare today, good Doctor?" She asks, teasing mixed with concern. "It wasn't too much, was it?"

"No, no." He takes her hand and raises it to his lips. "I am well. Glad to return to you, most of all."

She laughs, a light, floating sound. "And I am glad to have you back. Now. Come into the kitchen. I would place good money on a guess that you neglected to eat today."

His sheepish silence is answer enough.

"Take off your wet things," she directs, smoothing the front of her lavender dress with a businesslike nod. "I'll set the table."

His mouth twitches. "Yes, ma'am."

She winks, and steps neatly into the other room.

Squeaks echo his steps, wet soles rubbing waxed wood. He tugs his heavy coat from his arms and lets it hang on the rack.

With a smile, he turns to follow his wife. A sharp knock at the door pulls him back, a frown crossing his face.

"Hello?" He asks, puzzled as he opens the door. The Smith boy tips his hat, breathless in the cold.

His greeting tumbles out. "Evening, guv." Feet shuffle in a futile effort to get warm. "T' owd cove what lives next to me mum axed me if I'd run a note down 'ere." The paper is thrust out by red, shaking hands. "It's for Missus Watson, sir. 'e said it was urgent."

"Thank you, Smith," he says politely. Fishing in his pocket, he pulls out a coin and drops it into the boy's palm. "For your trouble. Get home, lad, and warm up."

Smith nods, stashing the coin dashing down the steps.

Slowly, he closes the door, sealing out the chilled air. The paper is crumpled, but the writing is neat. Unable to help himself, he reads.

_Dear Mrs. Watson,_

_ I am afraid the return appointment we set today will no longer be possible, as I am departing to the country tonight to attend to an injured friend. I cannot say when I will return. I apologise most profusely for the inconvenience. If you experience any trouble, I recommend that you seek another physician promptly. _

_ Sincerely, _

_ Doctor Williams_

He stares at the words for a long moment, blood rushing in his ears.

"Mary?"

The room seems far away, and her response faint even as she comes to stand beside him.

"John? John, are you alright?" Her hands find their way to either side of his face, warm and tender. "You've gone so pale."

"Mary," he says quietly, holding out the letter. "What is this?"

Her eyes widen. "Oh... Oh dear."

It feels as if his breath has been stolen from him. Words come with great pain. "You have been... seeing a private physician?"

"I..." She swallows, hands clasping beneath her chin. "I did not mean for you to find out."

Hurt stabs through him, slicing like a knife. "But... Why?"

"Come and have something to eat," she pleads, tugging on his wrist.

"Mary, _please_."

Her arm falls limp at her side. She refuses to meet his gaze.

"I had meant to... after dinner. But I suppose now is as good a time as any." She looks up, her eyes shy. A tinge of pink paints appears under her freckles.

She takes his hands in hers. "I am expecting."

His heart skips a beat. "You... What?"

Softly, "We are going to have a baby."

Stunned, he stares at her. Then the world begins to turn again, and a smile splits his face. "A baby."

"Yes." Her answering smile is nearly as large as his, and tears well up to spill down her cheeks. "Yes, a baby."

He laughs breathlessly, spinning her around and pulling her into a tight embrace. "That is wonderful news," he whispers.

She gives a sob that is really a laugh. "I know."

With gentle fingers, he tips her head up, placing a fervent kiss on her lips. She returns it, and hugs him again. Her hair smells of flowers.

"Oh, how I love you, John Watson," she breathes, and buries her face in his chest.

He lets his forehead rest on the crown of her head, holding her in his arms. The moment presses into his heart, never to leave. Never to be forgotten.

Joy fills his soul.

"And I love you."


	4. Surprise Party

_Today's prompt is from Rockztar - Watson is holding a surprise birthday party for Holmes (as much of a surprise as it can be) but the real surprise for Holmes is who Watson invites..._

_I'm dreadfully tired, and not altogether pleased with this, but it was a lovely prompt, and I enjoyed writing it. I think, in this case, that Watson had the advantage, simply because Holmes doesn't consider things like birthdays. Especially when he's been absorbed with one of his cases._

_Thank you to the lovely Spockologist, for helping me root out inaccuracies. One day, I will get to reading the rest of the books._

_Happy Tuesday!_

* * *

It was a mild sort of evening; pleasantly cool, lit by the deep orange glow of a setting sun. The air had a heady freshness, a lingering hint of rain.

Such evenings were rare enough, and plunged the city, for a few brief moments, into a picturesque state of contentment.

Sherlock Holmes cared for none of this.

He noted the temperature and lighting; for increasing the verity of his observations. Truthfully, however, he was not much absorbed in deducing the lives of his passerby. Triumph still rang out in his mind. His lungs filled with crisp oxygen, and he walked at an almost leisurely pace.

This case had been difficult. Solving it seemed futile, even for him. Lestrade despaired, deeming it impossible, but Holmes had sorted it in the end.

A smug smile flitted across his face.

221b looked jolly, rather than garish, strung with Christmas lights and adorned with a wreath. He pushed inside, feeling positively cheerful.

The high from this success would endure for a number of hours, at least.

"Holmes!" Watson cried, meeting him at the landing. He was nervous; fidgeting, his gaze bright. Holmes inclined his head.

"Watson."

"You look to be more yourself again. Carrington is behind bars, I take it?"

Holmes leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. "Carrington is dead. I told you of this earlier, Watson. Do try to keep up. Jones is behind bars."

"I was preoccupied." Watson let his weight balance on his cane. His fingers rubbed the wood anxiously. Holmes's eyes were sharp. Something was most certainly preoccupying the doctor's attention.

"Have you something to say, Watson?"

"Why-yes, indeed. Of course you would notice." Watson smiled, then, as if he knew a great secret. "Happy birthday."

Holmes faltered, stumbling from his position against the wall. "What?"

"Happy birthday. It is today, I asked Mycroft specifically, so don't try to play the fool." Watson looked very pleased with himself. Holmes's good mood was quickly evaporating. He turned thoughtful, troubled.

"Is it? What is the date?"

Watson held out a creased paper, previously tucked under his arm.

"Hmm. Ah, yes. I recall now. So it is. You are correct indeed, Watson; today is my date of birth." Holmes gave a perfunctory smile. "Your well wishes are unnecessary, but I applaud you for ferreting out the information. Good evening."

"Now, hold on!" Watson took hold of his elbow. "I haven't yet finished. It's a pity you were late in returning. The tea has gone cold. But everyone is waiting for you downstairs, and Mrs. Hudson surely wouldn't mind preparing a fresh pot."

Holmes stared at him. "Everyone? What on earth do you mean, everyone?"

"Surprise." Watson grinned roguishly. "Come, they'll grow impatient."

Holmes yanked his arm away. "No!"

"No?"

"I refuse."

Watson frowned. "Some of them have come quite a long way, you know."

"Then they'll want to start home as quickly as they can, I should think."

"What am I to tell them, then? That they've come all this way for nothing?"

Holmes glowered. "It is of no matter to me. Make your excuses. I am going out."

"Please."

Holmes's hands curled into fists. His pulse was at least thirty percent faster than average; he felt chilled. "Watson, I... cannot."

"Will not," Watson corrected in an acid tone. "For goodness' sake, Holmes!"

Holmes stared at him for a long moment, his heart thudding. It was irrational, how strong his desire to avoid Watson's demand was quickly becoming. But strong it was, nonetheless. He did not care to suppress it.

He shook his head curtly, pulling the door open. "I am afraid I cannot oblige you, my friend."

Watson's glare softened. He released an exasperated sigh. "Very well. I shall inform Mrs. Hudson that we have been called away on some urgent matter. Wait here."

"We?"

"Of course." Watson gave a small smile. "They are serving mince pies at the cafe down the street. I expect with a good cup of chocolate, that will suit as a birthday supper well enough."

"...ah." Holmes stood in the doorway, blinking, as Watson disappeared and reappeared just as rapidly.

"Off we go."

They stepped back into the cool air. The sky was now dark. Holmes lit his pipe, dropping the match into the gutter.

"You do not usually change your mind so readily," he commented, casting his companion a sidelong glance. "It is... unusual."

"It's your birthday," Watson said, shrugging. "I thought that you would find a reunion enjoyable. You clearly don't, so I won't force it. Today, at least. We will celebrate in a more fitting way."

Holmes frowned. "I see."

Watson's mouth tilted upward, but he delivered his words with sobriety. "In addition, I made the truly dismal mistake of inviting that Hamstead fellow. I could not have stood his ramblings for another moment."

Holmes blew a puff of smoke into the air, and smirked.

"In that case, you are _welcome_."


	5. Candlelight

_Trying my hands at a 221B... Today's prompt is from Werepanther33 - Candlelight._

* * *

I count each weak flutter of Holmes's chest.

Up. And down.

Slowly, and barely visible in the darkness.

It is the only sign that he lives; there is no clever remark, no sharp gaze, no fevered pacing.

He is very still.

"Come on, old friend," I whisper. It echoes off damp stone walls.

The air is cold.

My hands are steady only through years of experience. He is so pale, his face taking on a greyish tinge.

I recognize this look far too well; but I will not let him slip off into the distant beyond. Not yet. He belongs here.

"You are going to live, Holmes," I vow, a tremor entering my voice. "You are far too self-important to die, and I am far too stubborn to let you."

I draw the last clean rag from my plundered medical kit.

The first stitch is always the hardest. I keep the rag pressed firmly, working needle and thread through his skin. It makes a wet, puncturing sound that is deafening in the silence. My fingers come away red.

The space between Holmes's breaths grows, until each time I fear that another will never come.

My head drops, pain growing along with my fear. Surely help will come before it is too late.

The flickering candlelight makes an ocean of his blood.


	6. Xmas

_One day late on this one; my apologies. This prompt is from Poseidon God of the Seas - Xmas._

* * *

I let my head fall back against the earth. Cold water and mud soaked into my uniform, but I paid it no mind; I was so cold and so dirty that it no longer mattered.

"You still with us, Doctor Watson?"

"Yes," I breathed, nodding weakly. "Yes, I'm alright. How's your arm, Tom?"

"'s good." Tom leaned back next to me, panting. I feared that the wound fever was setting in, though he'd been hit only hours earlier; the climate made infection quick and deadly. His skin was flushed and sweaty despite the cold, and he favoured his right arm noticeably, switching to the less coordinated left hand whenever he could.

"May I take a look?"

"It's alrigh', Doc," he murmured, his eyes drifting closed. "Not the firs' time I've been shot."

His accent was queer; something of upper-class London and the streets mixing together, along with an American twang that slipped in when he wasn't paying attention. It became more pronounced as his fatigue increased.

"All the same. I'd like to examine it when we have a moment."

The boy gave a good-natured shrug, then winced. "If you want."

Two young soldiers stumbled down into the trench, slipping in the mud and collapsing. "'ello, Tom. Doctor."

"Morning," Tom responded, offering a feeble wave. It was very early, the sun not even up, and none of us had slept over three lads were exhausted; their young faces drawn and strained.

"Say, guv," Freddie pushed himself up and gave me a look that was a last attempt at composure. "What's t' date?"

"It's the twenty-fifth." William, the youngest of my three companions, gave a small smile. "Christmas Day."

Tom started out of his trance, crying out as he jarred his shoulder. I stilled him with a touch and a stern look.

"Easy, lad."

"Sorry sir," he said, sheepish. "I... jus' didn't realize it was Christmas already."

A mournful silence extinguished our conversation. The only sounds were faraway shouts and gunfire.

"Merry Christmas, then," Tom said softly, at last.

"Happy Christmas," Freddie returned, giving an encouraging grin. "I s'pose if I've gotta spend it 'ere, yer not such a bad lot o' coves to be with."

I motioned for them to come closer, mustering the final reserves of my strength. My pack was thankfully dry; waterproofed, with the last of my pay. "Cheer up, lads. We've made it to Christmas, the four of us. I believe it is safe to deem that an accomplishment."

They sat in a circle around me, slumped. I pulled out four cigars, sent from home, and offered one to each. Tom and William declined, but Freddie puffed his with a grateful look.

I rummaged around, removing the small bag of sweets that I generally reserved for my most frightened patients. "A taste of home," I said, passing them around. "I bought these at the corner shop near King's Cross some weeks ago."

William's face lit up. "I've been there! With my Mother, and my sister. We went last Christmas."

"Aye, I've seen it too." Freddie blew a ring of smoke.

"Thank you, Doctor Watson," Tom said softly. His mind was somewhere faraway, as I suppose all of our must have been.

"Of course." I closed my pack again and rolled my cigar between stiff fingers. "I know it musn't be what you're accustomed to."

"It's wonderful, sir," William said, holding the candy wrapper almost reverently. "You're very kind."

I waved my hand, embarrassed. "That is quite enough of that. Do you know any carols, Freddie?"

Freddie had a fine voice, when he was comfortable enough to sing. He nodded with a faintly shy look.

"Aye, I ken a few."

William smiled hopefully. "Do you know Silent Night?"

"'course, ye toff." Freddie nudged him fondly. "Everybody does."

Tom clasped William's hand on the right and mine on the left; the others joining suit. The first hint of sun began to warm our faces, and the sounds of battle faded away as Freddie sang.

"_Silent night, Holy Night..."_

A sense of comfort and warmth filled my heart. The future was uncertain, and we were far from home. But I could think of no better way to spend Christmas than with these, my brave, young friends.

"_Sleep in heavenly peace..._

_Sleep in heavenly peace."_


	7. Snowflakes

_I need to start writing these earlier... I fell asleep on a kitchen chair for an hour, so I suppose I can add that to my total sleep. Thank you to everyone who's reviewed! I need to be better at keeping on track with responding. You are all lovely and clever and I appreciate your words very much. __Today's prompt is also from Poseidon God of the Seas: Snowflakes._

* * *

Mrs. Hudson wandered amongst the crowd of boys, ruffling hair and touching shoulders with words of encouragement. The air was filled with snicking scissors and rustling paper, underlined by murmurs of concentration.

They were all taking this very seriously.

"Mrs. 'Udson?" Jamie, one of the youngest, tugged her sleeve and looked up with wide blue eyes. "Did I make it right?"

He held up his snowflake, shy.

With gentle fingers, she unfolded it. A smile crossed her face. "Yes, Jamie. It's beautiful. I like what you did right there, see? It's very nice."

"Me 'and slipped," he mumbled. "Are ye sure it's no' rubbish?"

"Oh, no," she said gravely. "Not rubbish at all. I think it's perfect."

His small face lit up with pleasure. "Perfect?"

"Perfect." She smoothed his hair, surveying her busy crafters fondly. "Who else is finished?"

Nearly every hand went up.

"Wonderful." Mrs. Hudson regarded the boys warmly. "Bring them all to the window, and we'll hang them."

With great care, the shapes were taped up. Mrs. Hudson gave each boy a scone to eat and one to slip away for later, then they huddled around the fire with piles of blankets, chattering excitedly.

Mrs. Hudson pulled Jamie into her lap and smiled at the front window.

Their motley little assortment of snowflakes made the world look very bright.


	8. Holmes makes tea

_Today's prompt is from cjnwriter: Holmes "makes tea." I hope I did it justice!_

* * *

I worked my way down the stairs slowly, rubbing cold fingers through my hair and leaving it on end; it had been a very long week, and I felt the strain.

A quiet, relaxing Sunday ahead of me seemed to be my own Christmas miracle.

"Good morning, Doctor," Mrs. Hudson greeted warmly. "The paper's on the table, and there's breakfast along with it, I expect you're hungry."

"Famished," I said, clasping her hand. "Thank you, very much, Mrs. Hudson."

If she was surprised at the fervent nature of my gratitude, she said nothing, and merely gave me a matronly smile as she disappeared into some corner of the building. I leaned heavily on my cane, thumping my way into the dining room and sitting in my usual place.

"Hello, Doctor." Holmes breezed in, still dressed in last night's disguise. It was rumpled, as if he'd forgotten he was wearing it and fallen asleep in the midst of his work.

I nodded a hello in return, heaping food onto my plate. It was hot and fresh, and I knew it would do wonders toward restoring my stamina.

Holmes picked around and assembled a small assortment of food. "Would you pass the-" he decided against manners and reached over me to pick up a scone. "You look rather dreadful, Watson. Did you sleep so little?"

"You were the one who suggested the reconnaissance, Holmes." I speared a bit of sausage and gestured at him with the fork. "I slept as much as I had time for, I assure you."

He perched at the other end of the table, nibbling his scone pensively. "Ah, yes. So I did."

I felt his gaze on me as I poured a cup of tea. Used to such scrutiny on his part, I continued my meal unbothered.

Absently, I blew the steam from my tea and took a sip.

And promptly choked.

It was positively vile; burnt and sour and tasting more like dirt and leaves than tea. I set the cup down, staring at it with a sense of betrayal.

"What in blazes..."

Surely Mrs. Hudson could never have produced such a thing. Her tea was among the best in the whole of England, in my opinion.

There was a scratching of pen from the head of the table. My eyes narrowed.

"Holmes."

The detective rose from his seat, circling me and poking my side. "How do you feel, Watson?"

"How do I feel? Have you _poisoned _me, Holmes?" I demanded, pushing the offending cup away. Tea indeed.

Holmes managed to look guilty and affronted and acutely observant all at once. "Of course not! That would serve no practical purpose. No, I merely switched today's tea with my own concoction. If you would oblige, I need to study the results."

"Concoction? What in blazes _was_ that?"

"Oh, an innocuous mixture. Several varieties of clay, herbs I located in the alley, a powder from the seller down the street... Ah, and a quantity of human skin."

I felt ill. "Holmes..."

He scribbled in his notepad, scarcely looking at me. "Do take a breath, Doctor. The last bit was an invention. The experiment is twofold. Shock reactions and the reaction to the tea itself. Now..."

"Holmes," I said sharply.

His eyes darted up. "What?"

"Go away."

He frowned. "What?"

"Go away. For at least an hour. No, two hours. I am going to eat my breakfast and I am going to read the paper by the fire. Two hours of peace and quiet. Leave me alone, for heaven's sake."

Holmes stared. "Watson, are you ill?"

"Out," I snapped. "Now."

He fled like a chastened schoolboy.

Once I had finished a healthy portion of my meal, I began to feel guilty for reprimanding my companion so. It had been at least three days since I had the time to sit and eat a proper meal, and combined with stress and lack of sleep I knew that I had become rather cross.

But to tamper with _tea_...

I folded the day's paper under my arm, picking up my cane and making the short journey to an armchair by the fire. To my surprise, a cup of tea rested on the sidetable. I scrutinised it as I sat down.

Upon reaching page three, I decided to hazard a taste. The liquid was warm and smelled spicy. Cautiously, I took a sip.

A smile crossed my face.

It was, in fact, tea. Poorly made tea; as if a child had made it. But it was tea nonetheless, and I recognised it as the olive branch that it was meant to be.

I resumed my reading, feeling pleased.

Coming from Sherlock Holmes, it was an olive branch cast in gold.


	9. Watson the babysitter

_I'm attempting to catch up before I have to go to bed... So expect a few. December 9th's prompt, from Alice Wright - Watson's left on babysitting duty for his five-year-old cousin while his aunt sees the sights. How is he going to handle having two children, albeit one of them grown, in the same flat?_

* * *

I pushed at the wardrobe door with my shoulder; feeble hope draining. It had been well over an hour now, and there had been positively no response from the outside world besides initial snickering and shuffling of feet.

The phrase "be careful what you wish for" had never before seemed so wise.

Timothy and Holmes had long since gone silent. The last thing I heard was an alarming amount of banging from upstairs.

"Blasted door," I muttered, sinking down. Whatever they had done to secure it, it had been most effective.

My head tipped back against the side of the wardrobe, I closed my eyes and let out a shallow breath. The air was beginning to grow very thin.

I was tense; my greatest was whether Timothy was well, whether Holmes was keeping some sort of a responsible watch on him.

All week I'd wished for something to distract my flatmate. He was intolerable, with the lack of productive activity. And he had nearly frightened poor Mrs. Hudson to death, shooting a hole through the door just before she opened it. I was at my wit's end. When my favourite aunt asked if I would watch Timothy for the day, I agreed readily; assuming that Holmes would be indifferent and I would have the opportunity to get to know the lad a bit better.

At first, that had been precisely the case. And then, all at once and entirely without explanation, the two became thick as thieves and plotted to contain me so that their antics could continue unhindered.

"Doctor Watson?"

Mrs. Hudson was home at last. I jumped to my feet, hitting my head on the top of the wardrobe in my haste.

"Mrs. Hudson! In here!"

Her measured footsteps approached. Furniture scraped against the floor as she slid it away; she then rapped softly on the wood. "Doctor? Whatever are you doing in there?"

"It's rather a long story, I'm afraid. I don't suppose you could get me out?" I held my breath, hopeful.

There was a long pause.

"I don't know..." The knob rattled. "Something's been done to the lock. The key won't go in."

I resigned myself with a grim nod. "Very well. Step aside, if you would."

"I... What?"

"You'll want to clear out of the way."

I heard the tapping as she moved, and squared my shoulders, hoping that since the furniture had been removed, breaking down the door would be a simpler matter.

With the last force I still possessed, I hurled myself against the door. The wood and hinges gave way with a shuddering crack, smashing to the floor and sending me spilling. I gasped for air.

"Are you quite alright?" Mrs. Hudson fluttered over me and I nodded quickly.

"Fine," I assured her, hauling myself upright. I took stock mechanically; a bleeding hand, certain bruises, perhaps a mild blow to the head. Nothing that could not wait. "I need to go find Holmes and my cousin."

"Why, they're outside. I passed them as I came in. They looked shifty, if you ask me. Now I see why." She frowned. "Really. I am sorry you were locked in, Doctor."

I flushed. "It's not a problem. As long as Timothy is unhurt."

And uncorrupted, I added mentally, hurrying to the door. Who could say what an hour of unadulterated time with Sherlock Holmes could do to an impressionable boy of five?

My shoes skidded as I dashed out onto the front steps. Ice and snow were collecting across the city, turning grey with dirt and soot. I did hope Timothy had been coaxed into a coat...

"Holmes!" I cried, catching sight of them. They were a few houses down; bent over something with great purpose.

His head flew up, panic and guilt marring his features.

"Uncle John!" Timothy scampered over, grinning openly. "You got out! Mr. Holmes said you wouldn't! I told him you were too clever. Didn't I, Mr. Holmes?"

"Indeed you did," Holmes said, a flush that was not only from the cold springing to his face. He cleared his throat. "Watson."

"Holmes." I gave him a stony look and scooped Timothy up. "Your mother should return soon. Did you have a nice time?"

"Oh, yes!" Timothy beamed. "Mr. Holmes showed me all kinds of things. Can I come back sometime? And maybe next time you and me can play too! Please?"

"I hope so," I said, ruffling his hair. He was shivering, and curled into the warmth of my arms. He was quite small for his age, I noted. A trait no doubt inherited from my aunt.

Holmes followed us inside, skulking behind. I set Timothy at the table and draped a quilt around his thin shoulders, allowing Mrs. Hudson to fuss over him and ply him with tea.

"I trust that this incident will never be repeated." My gaze was cool as I fixed it on my companion. "Ever."

He scuffed one shoe on the ground, not quite meeting my eyes. "It will not."

"Good." I relaxed, and elbowed him in the side. "We would go through wardrobes much too quickly."  
Timothy chattered away to me endlessly, and Holmes joined in, snatching bits of cake from the boy's plate and begging his own cup of tea.

My tenure as a childcare professional, as I well knew, would not end when my cousin returned home.


	10. Mycroft

_Complete 180 from the last one. And now to bed... It's been very fun to catch up on reading everyone's stories! You are all so brilliant and talented. :)_

_ December 10th prompt is from Werepanther33: Mycroft._

* * *

Holmes drew bow over strings, smoothly, producing a pensive sound. It was very late, or perhaps early. Dawn had not yet arrived.

He looked down into the streets below, covered in a film of dirty snow, bad for tracking, and lit by the dimmest lamps; bad for pursuit.

Fortunately, he had nowhere to be, and for a few hours yet, at least, he was content to remain in his fire-warmed study, pondering the final results of his last case and coaxing tunes from his violin.

A figure appeared out of the grey nothingness. Holmes paused, his hand hovering as he observed.

Only a limp identified it as Watson. His injury was pronounced with the cold, and by his apparent haste. Holmes abandoned his playing, turning away.

Watson had come seeking him; that much was certain.

Hurried footsteps and gasping inhales confirmed his hypothesis, as Watson burst through the door without knocking.

"Holmes," he breathed. He was leaning heavily on his cane, trembling with exertion and adrenaline. Holmes looked him over sharply. Bad news. He was bearing bad news.

"What is it?" He demanded.

Watson's chest heaved. He smelt of smoke, his shoulders tensed. "Fire," he said haltingly. "There's been... a fire. There was only one victim, they've taken-taken him to the hospital."

"Who was it?" Holmes asked quietly, numb. He knew the answer before it was pushed from frozen lips.

His friend's dark eyes were heavy.

"Mycroft."


	11. Mistletoe

_December 11 prompt is from Wordwielder: Mistletoe. _

* * *

Davey pushed his way through the crowd of jostling elbows, feeling sullen.

"Careful, Davey!"

"Yes, Mrs. 'Udson."

Wiggins nicked all his last Christmas cookie, claiming ownership because of his seniority. There were none left.

"Oy, Davey!" Wiggins called to him.

"What?" He asked, wary.

"Look up!"

Davey did so slowly, and blanched.

A small sprig of mistletoe hung sinisterly above him.

Snickers broke out among the boys, and a few whistled. Davey spun slowly on the spot to see who was beside him. His stomach jumped.

It was the crow's wife. She was wearing a green dress and she hadn't noticed him yet. Maybe if he just crept away...

But they'd all know.

"Go on, Davey!" Wiggins encouraged, grinning slyly.

Davey tugged on her arm, feeling ill.

"Hm? Oh!" She turned and looked down, giving him a warm smile. "Hello, David. Did you need something?"

He pointed up wordlessly, pale. Her gaze followed his and understanding dawned on her face.

"Ahh." She bent down, speaking in a quiet voice. "You don't have to kiss me if you don't want to. I won't tell."

His words came out in a rush. "Th' other boys've seen now an' if I don't they'll tease me something 'orrible." He looked at her with wide, miserable eyes. "I'm sorry, Missus Watson."

Her smile grew warmer. "It's quite alright. Here." A gentle kiss was pressed to his cheek, then she pulled back, eyes sparkling conspiratorially. "That ought to satisfy them."

Sure enough, all had gone to awed silence from behind. Then a cheer went up, and Davey turned pink.

"Hush!" Mrs. Hudson scolded, across the room.

Mrs. Watson slipped him something with a wink, ruffling his hair. "Happy Christmas, David."

It was another cookie. He beamed, and nodded.

"Thank you, Missus Watson."


	12. Creativity

_December 12 prompt is also from Wordwielder: Creativity. _

* * *

Holmes braced one arm firmly around my shoulders, supporting me as we moved through the night. I kept my gaze fixed on the end of the bridge. We could make it that far.

My own pulse and laboured pants were all I could hear.

No... That wasn't quite true.

I could hear our uneven footsteps against old cobblestone. The whistle of a boat far away. The sound of Holmes's hastily muffled noises of pain. I could even hear a faint strain of music, drifting downstream from the part of town where people still dared to be out of their homes this late.

"Watson?" Holmes asked, his voice high in alarm.

"Yes?" I breathed, trying to balance more of my own weight. The world swam before my eyes.

"You were silent for over six minutes this time," he ground out, holding his free arm loosely against his side. I cringed to think what this would do to his use of it in the future. But all my thoughts felt distant, as if they were making their way to my mind through a long tunnel.

"I am still here." I tried for a smile, but it turned into a grimace.

The smell of blood saturated the air, obscuring all else.

"Indeed."

All at once, the ground seemed to tip, and I found myself falling sideways. Holmes reached out to steady me, and caught the brunt of it with his bad arm. The colour drained from his face, a sharp intake of breath following, and I crumpled against the side of the bridge.

"Watson?" He crouched in front of me unsteadily. "_Watson_?"

"It's all right. I'm only lightheaded," I murmured, my head falling onto my knees. "Blood loss. You know as well as I."

"Of course I do," he snapped.

There was a long, tense silence.

A cricket chirped from under the bridge, and Holmes jumped. He covered it with an emphatic gesture, and pulled me to my feet again, resuming his stance of holding me up.

"We need to... Apply pressure, as we walk," I said. "But I'm afraid I..."

"I will do it."

"Your arm is broken," I said weakly, eyes wide. I could not get the world to remain still...

His expression was grim. "Yes, Watson, I am aware."

"But..."

"We will simply have to be... creative." He removed his necktie, pulling a handkerchief from somewhere on his person, and created a snug, makeshift bandage. His mouth was one hard line, his hands trembling. Once he had completed his task, his arm fell limp; his breath came in constricted gasps, eyes swimming with pain that he could no longer hope to conceal.

"Thank you, Holmes," I said, quiet. He gave a wordless nod, and tightened his grip on my shoulders.

We made it to the end of the bridge.


	13. Presents and Procrastination

_December 13th prompt is from Wordwielder: Presents and procrastination. Probably not what you had in mind, it took a different turn than I expected._

* * *

The streets were filled, men and women and children alike milling together in a cacophony of shouting voices. Smoke rose from each chimney, meals being kept warm for the special occasion.

Hansom cabs and automobiles rolled past the shops, bringing eager travellers to their destinations. I could hardly hear myself think, over the raucous, and yet there still seemed to be a hush in the air.

It was Christmas Eve.

Evening had arrived, and the excitement of the crowds could be felt tangibly as I pressed through them.

"Sorry, sir!" A boy cried, pulling a little girl along with him. Their eyes were alight. "It's quite alright," I said, but they had already gone. With a quiet shake of my head, I rebalanced my cane and continued on my course. I was tired to my bones.

One disaster after another had struck at the practice, it seemed; we'd had four patients brought in near death in the last two weeks alone.

And today, despite my best efforts, we lost one.

She was a young, sweet woman. Alice was her name, and she had very gentle grey eyes and a lilting voice. To this day I do not know what it was that killed her, only that I was powerless to do anything but watch as it did.

Her father would spend Christmas alone.

"Sir? Doctor Watson!" A delighted voice called my name, and I turned back.

It was Freddie.

I scarcely recognised him; it had been years since we'd served together, and he had grown from a thin, guarded boy into a fine looking young man with an open smile.

"Hello," I said, shocked. He shook my hand enthusiastically. His hair had gone from ginger to a dark shade of brown. It suited him.

"It's a right pleasure to see ye, sir," he said, clapping me on the shoulder.

"It's good to see you, too." I returned his smile. "You look well."

"Do I! That's a relief." He gave a sheepish grin. "I've been runnin' myself to t' ground these past weeks, tryin' to get ready for the 'olidays. But I've got two days off, an' I'm gonna spend them with me wife and our little girl."

"Congratulations, lad," I said, warmly. "I'm happy for you."

"I'm happy too. Never thought I would be again, after that war, but 'ere we are." He had a parcel stowed at his side, and shifted his weight from foot to foot with an impatient sort of anticipation. His accent had faded somewhat. It made him sound older.

"Here we are," I agreed. "I'm very proud of you, Freddie."

His face split into an even larger smile, and he embraced me tightly, parcel and all. "Thank ye, Doctor Watson," he said fiercely. "I wouldn't be here if it t'weren't for you."

I clasped his arm, feeling rather choked. "Go to your family. They'll be waiting."

Freddie nodded, beaming and waving; taking off at a run. "Happy Christmas!" He called back.

"Happy Christmas," I said quietly, and let my gaze fall to the ground.

I had to press on.

With all that had come to pass, I did not consider gifts until only a few days beforehand. It took searching that I summoned long-gone energy to complete; but it yielded fruit, and I had purchased something for everyone.

Everyone except Holmes.

I knew what I was going to give him, but it had to be purchased at the last possible moment. This moment was certainly that. I navigated my way through a crowd of students and picked up the gift, holding it carefully under my free arm, fearing for its safety in the jostling of elbows.

I needn't have worried. People began to return to their homes, and by the time I had exited the shop and reached the end of the street, it was growing quiet. I turned off into an alley and followed the well-remembered path to my destination.

My feet crunched over frozen grass, a chill heavy on the air. Clouds of white hung out before me as I breathed shallowly.

I stopped, fixing my eyes on the ground. All was still.

"Hello, Holmes," I said softly, laying down his gift.

The flowers were blood red against his dark headstone.

"I..."

My words were swallowed up by that blanketing, suffocating silence that clings to all cemeteries.

I brushed my fingers against the marker, and swallowed hard. Three years. Some small part of me had clung to the hope that he would return, against all odds, but at last I was coming to the realisation that he would not.

"Goodbye, Holmes."

A small, tired smile made its way onto my face as I imagined him berating me for my sentimentality. I leaned on my cane heavily, giving a minute nod.

"And quite right, old fellow. I always was the sentimental one, of the two of us."

Wind rustled through bare trees. I turned to leave, to return to an empty house.

With one final, wistful smile, I stepped away.

"Happy Christmas."


End file.
